Never an Empire

by James Green

  ‘Suit yourself and remember, Carmen died of a fever. You buried her. That’s it. He walked to the door but didn’t open it. ‘Oh, one more little thing. Give the lieutenant my special condolences. Say I especially asked to be remembered to him. That I deeply regret the death of his wife but that life has to go on. Got that?’ Father Enrique nodded. ‘Use those words, I deeply regret the death of his wife but that life has to go on.’

  ‘I’ll use those words.’

  ‘Good, and if he says anything, anything at all, you’ll let me know when you get back? Yes, of course, I know you will. Good night, Father.’

  The American opened the door and left. Father Enrique sat for a moment then stood up and went into the hall. It was empty. Maria came down the stairs.

  ‘I heard the front door. Have they gone, Father? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve gone but I’m afraid it’s not all right. Come and sit down. We must talk a little.’ They went in and sat down. Maria shot a look at the bottles and glasses but said nothing. ‘He knows about Carmen. He knows what happened, that she was killed, and he knows where her body is.’

  ‘Then why I am I still here?’

  ‘We are both here because I agreed to go and let her husband know she is dead. I must go to the village and say she died of fever. It’s not true but it’s not much of a lie either.’

  ‘Just go to the village and pass on a message?’

  Father Enrique had always, long before he had become a priest, been punctilious about telling the truth and avoiding lies. In fact until he had come to San Juan and Carmen had crashed into his life he could never ever remember telling a deliberate lie. Now it didn’t seem to matter so much.

  ‘Yes, just let her husband know that she is dead then return.’

  ‘And what happens to us when you come back?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘That’s what the American said. They leave the body where it is and everybody forgets that she was ever here. Nothing.’

  ‘I see. Do you believe him, that he will keep his word?’

  ‘I have to believe him. What else is there? And why refuse? The poor man has lost a wife; somebody should let him know.’

  ‘But if that’s all it is why do you have to be the messenger?’

  Father Enrique had no sensible answer to the question and Maria, whatever else she was, was a sensible woman. He looked at the bottle of bourbon on the table. It was still almost half full. It hadn’t tasted so bad. When Maria had gone he would try another drink. Or maybe two. He needed something to calm him.

  ‘I’m tired, Maria, and there’s been enough talking. The American told me to go, that if I did Carmen would be forgotten and you and I would be left alone. It was either do as he said or both be hanged so I agreed.’ He looked at the bottle again and felt his anger rising. He wanted a drink, not more talking. He wanted her to go. ‘You might want to die for the general but I’m not going to be the one who gets you killed. The American gave me a chance to save both our lives so I took it. There, that is enough. Now go.’

  He reached for the bottle and a glass and with a shaking hand poured himself a drink.

  Maria stood up and spoke softly, almost, one might say, obediently.

  ‘Yes, Father, you’re tired, but you have made the right decision, what else could you do? What else could anyone do? Goodnight, Father.’

  Father Enrique sat with his glass in his hand and watched her go. He remembered that tone and that manner from the last time. The time she had blasphemed against the Mother of God. What was she up to this time? Then he decided he didn’t care. He took a small drink, paused, then emptied the glass and poured himself another.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Father Enrique went to the American the next morning after saying Mass. At the end of the service he had announced that something urgent called him away and there would be no Confessions that day. Tomorrow and the next day the sacristan would lead the rosary instead of the morning service. His manner in delivering this message to the faithful was deeply sombre and faces turned to one another, speculating what terrible thing could have happened to take their priest away yet again, for terrible it must be to make him look and speak the way he did. San Juan Bautista was a very small, self-contained town and like all similar towns news travelled fast but no one had had any inkling of any disaster. Whatever it was must have happened a long way away. After the Mass the sacristan was in much demand but he knew nothing.

  The truth, however, had it been known was simple and somewhat commonplace. Father Enrique was experiencing what was for him a new sensation: a hangover. The previous evening he had sat and finished the bottle of bourbon and had woken to regret it. Even though he felt unwell and rather sorry for himself, he found he had developed a new admiration for the American who seemed able to drink copious amounts of the stuff and still function.

  Later, when he met the American in his hotel room, the man seemed fresh and alert though he had consumed most of the bourbon and on his own admission it had not been his first bottle.

  ‘Going today, Father? Good. Get it over and done with. I’ll get a horse and you should be on your way in about half an hour. Coffee?’ Father Enrique shuddered slightly and shook his head. The American left the room and returned in a few minutes. ‘Anything you need?’

  ‘All I need I will collect from my house.’

  ‘Fine. Sure about that coffee?’

  ‘Yes, very sure, thank you.’

  In one hour Father Enrique had collected the few things he needed from his house and was on his way.

  His arrival at the village was a far cry from the first time he had come or the second. The people looked at him as he rode in but then went on about their business. No one came to hold his horse when he stopped. He dismounted and led the horse himself to the head man’s house. The head man was already in the doorway, waiting.

  ‘Welcome, Father. You honour us with a third visit?’

  Despite the words there was no welcome in the tone or manner and the question was more of a challenge than an enquiry. He’d seen all he wanted of this priest.

  ‘I have a message for the lieutenant.’

  ‘Lieutenant? What lieutenant?’

  The head man was puzzled. This priest seemed to have changed. He was a different man from the proud, aloof young priest who had come those weeks ago or the one who had come ordering people about the second time. He spoke without any authority in his voice, almost humbly.

  ‘Please, don’t waste my time or your own. You know who he is and I know the village is in contact with General Sakay’s army. You are to get a message to him.’

  ‘No, Father, that is not possible. To say I can do that is to admit that …’

  Father Enrique cut him short. His voice changed. The old Father Enrique was returning. He was tired, hungry, and thirsty. He wanted to rest.

  ‘Just do as I say and get the message to him. Tell him the priest from San Juan is here and has to speak with him. I will wait two days, no more.’ He saw the head man was about to argue. ‘Just do it.’ He held out the reins of his horse. ‘Take these, see that it is fed and watered,’ reluctantly the head man took them, ‘and get your wife to make me a meal. I’m tired and hungry.’ He looked around. ‘I will sit over there in the shade. See that your wife doesn’t take too long.’

  He walked away to a nearby tree and sat down on the ground in its shade. The head man watched him. This was a different man indeed but he wasn’t sure if the change was for the better. The young priest he might have defied. But this man might be dangerous. The village was already deeply involved in some plan of the general’s, although no one knew what it was. Now it seemed that this priest had become part of it. He might have dared to defy a priest, but not the general. He turned and called inside for his wife.

  After his meal Father Enrique remained under his tree. The journey had dispelled the morning’s ill effects and he had arrived with a considerable ap
petite, but the meal had been a poor affair of cooked, brined pahos with nothing to drink but water. As it was all there was he had to be satisfied and, with nothing to do, he dozed under his tree.

  The people of the village stayed away from him because the head man had quickly let it be known that the priest was here on the general’s business, something to do with what Carmen and the lieutenant were doing. He had also sent a message to the lieutenant, an urgent message, taken by a woman who knew the tracks even in the dark. With luck it would be with the army this night and the lieutenant, if he came, would be in the village the next day. If that happened the priest would be gone tomorrow or the day after. Once they were rid of him he and the whole village would feel better.

  Father Enrique passed the afternoon dozing, unmolested. In his waking moments he reflected how different this visit was from the first or his second. He was still a priest yet now no one seemed at all interested in him or what he could do for them. They didn’t need him and didn’t want him. No requests for a Mass, for a sermon, for Confessions, nothing. Not that he’d come prepared to do any of that. All he wanted was to get his business over as soon as possible and get back to San Juan. He wanted to be gone as much as the villagers wanted him gone. But all the same it was strange how quickly things could change.

  Early evening came, another meal was brought: rice and beans, and finally the sun set. The old Father Enrique would have made a fuss about suitable sleeping accommodation but the new Father Enrique didn’t care. He asked for and was given a couple of blankets by the head man, laid them out, slept under his tree, and woke with the sunrise. The day was before him with nothing to do but wait. About half an hour after he had finished the mess that was his breakfast and was sitting once more under his tree a young woman shyly approached him.

  ‘Father, my mother is very sick. I think she is dying. Would you come and say a prayer and perhaps give her your blessing?’

  Father Enrique got to his feet and dusted himself down. He had no idea how he looked: unwashed, unshaven, the clothes he had travelled and slept in crumpled and sweaty. Whatever he looked like, a tramp, a bandit, he was sure he didn’t look like a priest, yet this young woman spoke to him as one.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  The young woman led the way and Father Enrique followed her. As they walked he thought how much like Carmen she looked: slim figure, long black hair, pretty face. Yet he felt nothing, no attraction whatsoever. What had he seen in Carmen? Why had he thought her so special? He could see now that she was not really any different from countless other pretty young women.

  They arrived at a hut no different from the others: small, thatched, with faded limewash on the walls. A group of women stood around the doorway and silently parted at his arrival. He went into the darkness of the hut, paused while his eyes adjusted, then went with the young women through to the small bedroom. On the bed lay an old woman. Her eyes were closed and there was no sign of breathing. He went and knelt at the side of the bed. He had been at many deathbeds, seen people pass from life to death, so he didn’t need to examine the woman to know she was already dead. He put his hand on her forehead. It was not yet cold. He turned and looked up at the young woman who was standing behind him.

  ‘She is dead.’

  ‘I know, Father. I would have come to you last night when I knew she was dying but the head man told us all to leave you alone, that you were here on the general’s business and no one should approach you. But this morning my mother died so I came. Did I do wrong, Father?’

  ‘No, no my child. You did the right thing. Your mother has not been dead long, her body is not cold. Her soul may still be with her, waiting. I will bless her, give her absolution for her sins, then pray for her soul.’

  Tears were now streaming down the young woman’s face but her voice remained the same, calm, humble, respectful.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Father Enrique turned to the body, blessed himself, and began the blessing in Latin, the universal language of the Catholic Church. He then pronounced the formula of absolution which he had used mechanically and without thought for so many penitents in the Confessional. Now, without any of the usual outward signs of his priesthood and kneeling like a peasant himself on the hard dirt floor beside the body he wondered, as he spoke the necessary words, what the sins of this woman might have been. None serious he was sure of that, small things, petty things, what did they matter against the hardships and privations of the life she must have lived. Whatever her failings she had brought up a loving daughter who grieved for her and defied the head man to bring a priest to her.

  He finished the absolution and stood up.

  ‘Bring in the other women now: we will all say the Sorrowful Mysteries of the rosary together to keep your mother’s soul company as it goes in peace to her new home in heaven. Then they can get her ready. If I am still here when she is buried I will pray at the graveside for her.’

  ‘Bless you, Father.’

  The young woman didn’t have to leave the small room, the women who had waited at the doorway had been listening and waiting and now those at the front came in and knelt down. Those who couldn’t get in knelt in the other room.

  Father Enrique knelt once more and in a strong, clear voice, with his hands together, led the prayer.

  ‘The first Sorrowful Mystery, the Agony in the Garden.’

  When the rosary was over he and the women stood up. The young woman, still weeping, came and took his hand and kissed it.

  ‘Thank you, Father. God bless you.’

  As he walked to the door other women took his hand and kissed it. He let them do it and remembered the last time it had happened. It was their way of showing respect and gratitude. He didn’t deserve it, he had done no more than his duty, but this was their village and he also must show respect and gratitude, respect for their ways and gratitude that they had allowed him to serve.

  Outside the hut the head man was waiting.

  ‘I told them not to bother you, Father.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The head man stood, obviously he had something to say and didn’t want to say it in front of the women who had followed Father Enrique out of the hut. ‘Well.’

  ‘I need to speak to you, Father.’

  ‘Then speak. These people know why I’m here, don’t they? You told them I was here on the general’s business?’

  ‘Yes, Father, I told them, but only so they would leave you alone.’

  ‘And who said I wanted to be alone?’ Father Enrique could see the anger in the head man’s eyes at this rebuke. Why did he speak to him like that? Why could he not be more patient, tolerant? ‘I’m sorry. I am tired and it has not been by my own choice that I am here.’

  He sighed. ‘Please say what you have to.’

  ‘If the lieutenant comes he will come to his mother’s house. That is what happened in the past when his wife came. Will you wait there? If the lieutenant got my message he could be here any time from midday onwards.’

  ‘Then tell his mother to let me know when he arrives. I will be under the tree where I slept.’

  ‘Very well, Father, it will be as you say.’

  The head man turned and walked away.

  Why do I behave like that to him, thought Father Enrique. Is it because he is proud and pompous and reminds me that I was just the same when I first came here? How can I kneel by the bedside of a dead mother and pretend to be a good priest when as soon as I get out of the hut I behave like that? What use can my prayers be?

  Then, thinking of prayers and praying, he remembered that in his saddle bag was his breviary: the book of daily prayers and readings for clergy and religious to be recited three times a day without fail. Once he had been punctilious about this routine but lately, as he had in so many other things, he had changed. There had been days recently when none of the prayers had been said, the book not even opened. What a dereliction of his priestly duty. He walked
off in the same direction as the head man and went to where his horse had been hobbled. The saddle and saddle bags lay nearby. Father Enrique took out the heavy, black breviary, opened it at the correct day, began to walk slowly and say the words. He didn’t hurry this morning prayer or say them mechanically as he had so often done when he was busy, he walked slowly, read slowly, mouthed the words with care then turned and walked back. There was no hurry, the whole day, empty of purpose until the lieutenant came, stretched before him. For the first time in a long time, a very long time indeed, he let not only the words but their meaning enter his mind and, he hoped, his soul. He still wanted to be a priest, a worthy priest, but that could never happen until this incubus that had crept into his bed and possessed him was exorcised. That could never happen until he was free of all of it, including the American.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Father Enrique was sitting under his tree. His midday meal was over: pahos again, but he had tried to sound grateful and appreciative. He was thinking about how long he would stay. He had told the head man no more than two days but he knew he could not stick to that. The American was expecting some sort of message from the lieutenant and he would have to have it: that was the only way this thing might end. If it took the lieutenant three days or even more to come he would have to wait. But if it took that long then people in San Juan would probably start to worry. He had told no one where he was going but it wouldn’t be too hard for someone to decide he had come to this village again. Tongues would wag and questions would be asked. News of what was going on might even get to the bishop. On top of that the sacristan wouldn’t like to be left for so long on his own. He might easily go to the chief of police. Then there was Maria. What would she be doing? His thoughts, having turned to Maria, stayed there. She was a good woman, a strong woman, as his mother had been and, like her, had complete dedication to what she believed in. For his mother that had been her family and the Catholic faith, for Maria it was freedom for the Philippines. Why could he not be strong like them, have their commitment? Maria was prepared to die for what she believed in. Could he become a martyr if called upon to face death for his faith? All his life he had been sure that he could: that his faith was more important to him than life itself because a martyr’s death opened the door to a new life, eternal life. Now he wasn’t so sure. It was in part because Maria was so willing to die that he had agreed to come. He was frightened of the American, he admitted it, and he was frightened of dying. But his life was dedicated to God not to the Philippines or any other country. When he became a priest the Catholic Church became his country. The American could have them both hanged, that he didn’t doubt, and he didn’t want to die nor could he let Maria die if it was in his power to save her. She had something to live for so he wanted her to live.